by Lars Kepler
“This recording”—Carlos clears his throat—“proves nothing. Right from the start he said he would not testify, he was not going to be a witness. I imagine that made the case evaporate and made the prosecutor end the investigation.”
“Three weeks later, Salvatore Garibaldi’s head was found by a man walking his dog,” Anja says. “It was in a ditch by the Via Goethe, behind a racetrack in Rome.”
“What happened to his daughter?” Joona asks quietly. “Does anyone know?”
“Fourteen-year-old Maria Garibaldi is still missing,” Anja says shortly.
Carlos sighs and mutters to himself. He walks to his aquarium and contemplates his paradise fish for a long while before he turns back.
“What do you want me to do? You cannot prove that the ammunition is being diverted to Sudan. If Axel Riessen has disappeared, you cannot link it to Raphael Guidi. Give me the tiniest shred of proof,” he pleads, “and I will go to the prosecutor. But I need something concrete, not just—”
“I know it’s him,” Joona says.
“And I need more than Joona declaring that he knows,” Carlos responds.
“We need the authorities behind us to arrest Raphael Guidi for crimes against Swedish and international law,” Joona continues stubbornly.
“Not without proof,” Carlos says.
“We’ll find proof,” Joona says.
“You need to convince Pontus Salman to testify.”
“We’ve already picked him up, but getting him to testify will be very tough. He’s already so frightened he was about to commit suicide,” Joona says.
“If we arrest Raphael, maybe he’ll feel free enough to talk. That is, if things ever calm down,” Saga says.
“We still can’t arrest someone as important as Guidi without any proof,” Carlos reiterates firmly.
“So what the hell can we do?” demands Saga.
“Lean on Pontus Salman—”
“We’ve got to hurry. I believe that Axel Riessen is in danger,” Joona says.
They are all interrupted as Jens Svanehjälm, the chief prosecutor, strides into the room.
97
flight
Air-conditioning has chilled his car, but that’s not what makes Pontus Salman’s hands shake on the steering wheel. He’s already crossing the bridge to Lidingö Island. A ferry to Finland is leaving its dock and beyond Millesgården someone is burning leaves.
A few hours ago, he’d been in his tiny flat-bottomed rowing boat trying to hold a rifle barrel to his mouth. The metal taste is still on his tongue, and he can still hear the scraping sound it made against his teeth.
A woman in a straggly blue punk haircut was jogging onto the dock with the detective. She’d called him gently in her middle-aged voice to come closer. She had to tell him something important. She was wearing bright red lipstick. She’d brought him to a small grey room. He found out her name was Gunilla and she was a psychologist. She’d talked to him deeply about what he had intended to do when he rowed out onto the lake.
“Why do you want to die?” she’d asked plainly.
“I really don’t want to,” he’d answered truthfully, surprising her.
She was taken aback a moment and then they began to really talk. He’d answered all her questions and became more and more convinced that he did not want to die. He’d rather run and he began to plan where he could go. He’d just disappear and start a new life as someone else.
The car had crossed the bridge. Pontus Salman looks at his watch and feels tremendous relief that, by now, Veronique’s plane must have left Swedish airspace.
He’d told Veronique about French Polynesia and now he can fantasise: he sees her emerge from the airport carrying her light blue carry-on. She’s wearing a broad-brimmed hat, which she has to hold down in the breeze. Why couldn’t he escape, too?
The only thing he needs is his passport from his desk drawer.
I don’t want to die, Pontus Salman thinks as he watches traffic rush by.
He’d rowed out into the lake to flee having to reap his nightmare, but he just couldn’t pull the trigger.
I’ll take any plane at all, he thinks. Iceland, Japan, or Brazil. If Raphael Guidi really wants me dead, he’d have killed me already.
Pontus Salman drives up to his garage and gets out. He takes a deep breath to smell the warm stones under his feet, the car exhaust, the fresh smell of growing plants.
The street seems abandoned with everyone at work and even the children still in school for a few more days.
Pontus Salman unlocks the door and walks in. All the lights in the house are off and the curtains are drawn.
He has to go downstairs to get his passport from his office.
Once on the lower level, he pauses as he hears something strange, as if a wet blanket is being pulled across a tile floor.
“Veronique?” he asks in a strangled voice.
Pontus Salman can see light from the pool dapple against a white stone wall. With his heart racing, he slowly, silently, walks towards the pool.
98
the prosecutor
Chief Prosecutor Jens Svanehjälm greets Saga Bauer, Joona Linna, and Carlos Eliasson quietly, gestures them to a seat, and then sits down. The material Anja Larsson collected is spread over the coffee table in front of him. Svanehjälm takes a sip of his soy coffee and looks at the top picture before he turns to Carlos.
“You’ll have a hard time convincing me,” he says.
“But we will,” Joona says with a smile.
“Go ahead and make my day,” the prosecutor replies in English.
Svanehjälm looks like a little boy dressed in his father’s clothes. His neck is thin, without any apparent Adam’s apple, and his narrow shoulders slump even though he wears a well-tailored suit.
“This is complicated,” Saga says. “But we fear Axel Riessen from ISP has been kidnapped as part of this slaughter that’s been going on the past few days.”
Carlos’s phone rings so she pauses.
“I’m sorry,” he says to them, and then into the intercom he snaps, “I thought I told you that we couldn’t be disturbed!” He listens a moment to the voice there and then picks up the office phone. “Carlos Eliasson here.”
He listens and then his cheeks flame bright red. He mumbles that he understands, thanks the caller, and hangs up.
“I’m sorry,” Carlos says.
“It’s nothing,” Jens Svanehjälm says politely.
“I mean, I’m sorry that I have troubled you at all with this meeting!” he says. “That was Axel Riessen’s secretary calling from ISP. I’ve been in contact with her all morning … and she’s just got a call from Axel Riessen.”
“So what did she say—no kidnapping?” Jens Svanehjälm smiles.
“He is on Raphael Guidi’s yacht wrapping up the final details on the export approval.”
Joona and Saga exchange glances.
“So you’re all happy now?” asks the prosecutor genially.
“Apparently Axel Riessen requested a meeting with Raphael Guidi,” Carlos tells them.
“He would have spoken to us first,” Saga says stubbornly.
“The secretary says that they’ve been on the boat the whole day to iron out any differences. He says the agreement is long overdue and he would probably fax his signature in to the ISP this evening.”
“He’s going to authorise it?” asks Saga as she stands up abruptly.
“That’s right.” Carlos smiles.
“And his plans after that? He’s made plans—” Joona inquires.
“He was—” Carlos stops and frowns at Joona.
“Why did you think he would plan something special after this meeting?” he asks. “But yes, his secretary told me he planned to borrow a Forgus sailboat from Raphael Guidi to go on a long sail down the coast to Kaliningrad.”
“Sounds wonderful,” says Jens as he gets up to leave.
“Idiots!” Saga says as she kicks the wastepaper basket. “You must know h
e was forced to make that call!”
“Let’s behave like adults here,” Carlos says.
He bends down to pick up the basket and the spilled rubbish.
“So we’re done here now, aren’t we?” Svanehjälm says quietly.
“Axel Riessen is a prisoner on Raphael Guidi’s boat,” Joona says just as quietly, but his words are rock firm. “Give us the authority to go and get him.”
“Maybe I’m really dense, but I see no cause for action at all,” Jens Svanehjälm tells them, and calmly leaves the room.
They watch him leisurely close the door behind him.
“Sorry I lost it,” Saga apologises to Carlos. “But this makes no sense. Axel was adamant he would never sign this agreement … at least, not of his own free will.”
“Saga, I’ve put two lawyers onto this case,” Carlos explains. “All they found was a perfectly legitimate export deal that Silencia Defense had put together. I assure you they went over it with a fine-tooth comb—”
“But we have a photograph where Palmcrona and Salman meet with Raphael Guidi and Agathe al-Haji in order to—”
“I know all that,” Carlos says hastily. “But we can’t prove what we suspect. A simple photograph is not enough.”
“So we’re going to just sit on our asses and watch this ship leave Sweden with ammunition we know is bound for Sudan?” Saga exclaims indignantly.
“Get Pontus Salman in here,” Carlos answers. “Get him to testify against Raphael Guidi. Offer him whatever you can as long as he agrees to be a witness—”
“But if he refuses?” Saga asks.
“Then there’s nothing we can do.”
“Actually, we do have another witness,” Joona says softly.
“I’d like to meet him!” Carlos demands skeptically.
“We just have to bring him in before they find his drowned body in the sea outside Kaliningrad.”
“You’re not going to get your way this time, Joona.” Carlos seems to push himself back.
“Yes, I will.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, indeed I will.” Joona won’t give an inch.
Carlos looks at Joona sadly.
“We’ll never convince the prosecutor about this,” he says after a while. “But since I can’t spend the rest of my life sitting here and saying no to you while you say yes, well, then …”
He sighs, thinks for a moment, and then says, “I’ll give you permission to look for Axel Riessen in your usual role as our consultant. We simply need to check on his safety.”
“Joona will need backup,” Saga says.
“This is not a real police operation,” Carlos says. “It’s just a way to get Joona to shut up.”
“But Joona will be—”
“What I want,” Carlos says, “what I really want is for you, Saga, to bring Pontus Salman here from Södertälje as I’ve already requested … if he can give us a watertight case, we can go after Raphael Guidi with everything we’ve got.”
“There’s no time for all that,” Joona says as he starts walking to the door.
“I’ll go and get Pontus,” Saga agrees.
“And Joona? What are you—”
“I’m going to drop in on Raphael and have a little chat,” Joona answers as he walks out of the room.
99
the payment
After lying huddled in the trunk of a car, Axel is stiff when he’s finally allowed out. He finds he’s been taken to a small private airport. The landing strip is made of concrete and surrounded by a high fence. A helicopter waits in front of a building that looks like a barracks. A tall mast sticks up from the roof.
Axel can hear the screech of seagulls as he is made to walk between the two men who have kidnapped him. He’s still wearing just trousers and a shirt. There’s nothing to say, so he climbs into the helicopter with the men. He sits down and fastens the harness. One of the two men is the pilot. He manipulates the instruments on the panel before him, then turns a tiny, shining key, hits another control, and presses a pedal.
The man next to the pilot spreads a map over his lap.
There’s peeling tape on the windscreen.
The motor hums as the engine takes hold and the rotors start to slowly rotate. The narrow blades slice heavily through the air and the hazy sunshine blinks across the windscreen. The rotor revs more and more quickly.
A paper cup on the ground is blown away.
The engine has warmed up. The blades clatter deafeningly. The pilot holds the joystick in his right hand, moving it with small, square movements. Suddenly they lift.
The helicopter heads slowly straight up at first, but then it tips forward and they move off.
Axel’s stomach lurches as they fly over the fence, up over the trees, and then swing so quickly to the left that it feels as if the helicopter is tipping to the side.
Swiftly they put the rolling green ground behind them, along with a few lonely roads and a house with a shining tin-plated roof.
The helicopter engine thuds and the shadows of the rotating blades flick across the windscreen.
The mainland ends and the sea opens up beneath them.
Axel tries to think through what’s happened. Raphael Guidi must have had everything in place. He’d phoned Axel from his yacht in the Finnish bay. He’d said that he was on his way to Latvia and heading for the open Baltic Sea, then Axel had cut him off. There could have been no more than a minute or two between the time he told Guidi he would not sign and the moment when the two thugs broke into his house and shocked him with the stun gun.
At least they didn’t rough him up. They made sure he was lying comfortably even if it was in the trunk of a car.
Half an hour later, they’d stopped that car and exchanged it for another.
An hour later, they let him walk on his own to the helicopter.
The ocean beneath them moves past as swiftly as a motorway. The skies above seem static, cloudy, and moistly white. They’re flying at fifty metres and at great speed. The pilot talks into the radio but Axel finds it impossible to hear what he’s saying.
Axel dozes for a while and can no longer sense how long he’s been in the helicopter when he looks down to see a luxury yacht ploughing through the rippling sea. It is huge, a white ship large enough to contain a light blue swimming pool and several tanning decks.
They drop steeply down.
Axel reminds himself again that Raphael Guidi is a very rich man and he leans forward to take a good look at the yacht. It’s really unbelievable. The ship is trim and arrow-sharp and so white it looks frosted. It’s at least one hundred metres long with a soaring captain’s bridge, at least two stories high, on the afterdeck.
The helicopter thrashes its way down towards the rings marked on a helicopter pad on the foredeck. The backwash from the rotor blades whips along the water curving from the sides of the boat. The helicopter hovers, sinks slowly, and then settles onto the platform, softly swaying. They land smoothly and wait until the blades stop. The helicopter pilot remains in the cockpit while the other man takes Axel’s arm to guide him across the platform. They stoop in the wind draft until they pass through a glass door.
The room they enter seems to be an elegant waiting room, with sofas and a coffee table as well as a darkened large-screen television. A man in a white uniform greets them smoothly and gestures towards a sofa for Axel to take a seat.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asks softly.
“Just water, please,” Axel replies.
“Plain or mineral water?” asks the man.
Before Axel can reply, another man walks through the door.
This one resembles the first man who’d escorted Axel from the helicopter. They are both tall and wide with well-coordinated bodies, but this new man is so blond that his eyebrows are almost colourless, and his nose looks like it had once been painfully broken. The resemblance ends there. Axel’s first captor has grey hair and horn-rimmed glasses. They move together as a team, s
ilently, effectively and with no wasted movement, as they lead Axel down some steps to the suites below.
The whole ship seems strangely deserted. A beautiful little wicker suite on a platform has been neglected. The exquisite weaving has splits and jagged points that stick out from the edges of the chairs and table. Axel is surprised to see that the pool, which looked so blue from above, almost looks dusty. It clearly has not had water in it for years. It’s filled with piles of broken chairs, a sofa without cushions, and some broken desk chairs.
Inside, the further one goes in the ship, the more empty and deserted it seems. Axel’s footsteps echo across the hallway’s scratched marble floor.
They walk through double doors with the words SALA DE PRANZO elegantly carved into the dark wood above. The dining room is enormous. Only open sea can be seen outside the panoramic windows and a wide, red-carpeted staircase leads to the upper level. Stunning crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling. The room has been designed to impress, but on the dining-room table there’s nothing but a copier, a fax machine, two computers, and a massive collection of folders with filed paperwork.
A short man sits at a small table in the massive room. His hair is flecked with grey and a wide bald spot shines on his crown. Axel recognises Raphael Guidi at once. Guidi is dressed casually in light blue gym shorts with a matching jacket. The number 7 is stitched to his breast pocket with a larger image on the back. He wears white tennis shoes without socks. “Welcome,” he says in English.
A mobile phone rings in his pocket, and Guidi picks it up, glances at the number, but doesn’t answer. Almost immediately afterwards, another phone call comes in, and Guidi says a few words in Italian. Then he looks at Axel Riessen. He gestures proudly to the panoramic windows and the rolling ocean waves.
“I am here against my will,” Axel begins.
“I’m sorry, but there was no other way. We’ve run out of time—”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want your loyalty,” Raphael replies shortly.